Ruthless Bishop: Dark New Adult High School Bully Romance (Sinners and Saints Book 3)

by Veronica Eden

  I spit into the dirt and swipe my hand beneath my nose to catch the trickle of blood. It comes away bright red, smeared across my knuckles. A minor blood vessel injury, nothing serious. When I chuckle, the guy backs off again, glancing at Landry.

  No one wants to fight crazy. It’s different than angry. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

  Come the fuck at me, bro.

  I lift a hand and wave him back for more. “Come on, I won’t bite.”

  “No biting,” Landry’s surly friend barks.

  A sharp laugh punches from my gut. I gesture to Landry’s friend, appealing to my opponent. “See, no biting. It’s in the rules. Let’s fucking go, big guy. Time to dance.”

  The match starts back up and I go hard, unleashing everything I’ve got until I can see the fear creeping into my opponent’s wide eyes. We go long enough that every one of his punches result from desperation as the crowd screams and cheers. Their shouts are drowned out by the pounding pulse in my ears.

  Sweet oblivion comes when I use my fists to channel the anger out. I’m the kind of fucked up monster that takes enjoyment in making the guy I’m fighting think I might actually kill him with my bare hands. It’s not his fault I’m like this, I don’t even see his face when I throw a punch. Every time I do, I’m right back to that afternoon I caught Mom and Damien and lost it.

  My next hit clocks the guy across his red, swollen cheek and he goes down in a slump. Everyone erupts in a deafening ruckus of screams, celebrating another win. Landry stands off to my left at the edge of the clearing, hands propped on his hips. He’s probably pissed I didn’t mention wanting in on tonight, only blackmailed him into a cut of the winnings. If he’d known, he would have made a bigger killing.

  I stand over my opponent, panting. He’s out cold. Damn, I wanted that to go longer. I glance up, scanning the crowd for the next challenger.

  It takes almost the entire two minute allowance, but as the crowd grows restless, hungry for more brutality, someone else enters the clearing.

  My mouth curves wickedly and I square up for the next round.

  Six

  Thea

  Sweat beads along my temples and makes the baby hairs falling from my messy bun curl against my skin, sticking to the back of my neck as I walk Constantine through the neighborhood. Something Beautiful by Tori Kelly plays in my earbuds as we amble along in the uncomfortable afternoon heat, the soulful girl power song helping me forget any self-consciousness for my outfit. It’s too hot out to cover up, so I’m in high waist yoga leggings and a billowy boatneck crop top over a sports bra.

  Luckily, the neighborhood is pretty quiet this time of day. It’s shortly after school let out, and too early for people to be home from work, so no one will see me like this. It’s just me, my chunky rottweiler, and the sprawling manicured lawns bordered by natural landscaping rather than fence lines to avoid interrupting the effect of money at work. I swipe my arm over my forehead and emit a tiny groan. Maybe I’ll whip up homemade ice cream when we get back. Pumpkin ice cream sounds so good right now.

  Constantine doesn’t mind the heat, happily keeping pace at my side with his tongue lolling out. I laugh when he stops to sniff a garden bed, coming nose to nose with a fat bumble bee that bonks against his snout and sends him into a playful tumble in the grass.

  “Oh, Con, you silly boy. Come on. It’s too hot to stay out for our usual walk.” I give his lead a tug and continue down the sidewalk. “When we get home, we’re making ice cream. How’s that sound?”

  Constantine gives me the cutest head tilt, his black ears perked.

  A jogger rounds the corner on the next block and my steps falter. Shirtless, abs and pecs glistening in the sunlight, Connor Bishop looks like a god amongst men. His light brown hair bounces with his effortless running form, his long legs powerful as he cuts his path. Everything about his aura says confident, knows what he wants, and nothing’s stopping him from getting it. It’s an alluring sight to behold, addictive to be around in school—it’s no wonder everyone flocks to him. He’s really hot, but I could never want him.

  No matter how attractive he looks, especially now, running toward me in nothing but basketball shorts, it doesn’t forgive how he’s treated me the few times he’s paid me any attention since we were kids.

  I force myself to keep walking toward my house. Self-consciousness creeps back in.

  Why are these streets so long? Why are our houses both in the middle? Maybe he’ll reach his before me and I won’t have to worry about interacting with him. It’s not like he’s noticed me much this year.

  We’re almost home free, but Connor catches my eye after I close out of the playlist on my phone once I reach my driveway. I freeze, arrested by the full force of his attention. It’s weirdly commanding, without him telling me to wait I’m obeying. He gives me a once over that floods my cheeks with warmth. Oh my god.

  Does he think I look weird? A crop top is all wrong for me, I knew it.

  No.

  That’s not true. My inner critic can shove it. I have a body and I can dress it any way I want.

  I bet Wyatt wouldn’t think my outfit is strange. He appreciates me. I’m already picturing taking a naughty selfie later where I lose the sports bra and flash my boobs, holding the hem of the crop top up with my teeth.

  Knowing there’s at least one person out there who finds me beautiful just as I am gives me the strength I need to face Connor.

  Constantine plops onto his haunches by my side, dragging me from being under Connor’s controlling spell. His cool gray eyes flick to the dog for a second before flying back to meet my gaze.

  “Um,” I mumble, twisting the leash in my hands.

  Connor takes AirPods from his ear and studies me again, slower this time, dragging his gaze down my body. “Were you looking at me, neighbor? Here? Or maybe here?”

  As he taunts me, he smooths a hand over his pec, then down his torso, hooking his thumb in the waistband of his shorts. His knuckles are red and there’s a bruise on his jaw. It makes him look more dangerously handsome.

  Air catches in my throat when I inhale too sharply. I fling my hands in front of myself defensively. “I—no, I—”

  “Relax.” Connor’s voice is as smooth as the curve of his smirking full lips. He rubs his chin and rakes his teeth over his lower lip. “There’s no crime in it.” Each brush of his eyes is like a brand as they sweep over my legs and back up, lingering on my chest.

  My breaths come faster. It’s hard to ignore him when he’s making sure I can’t look away. Those gray eyes have some kind of magic that keeps me rooted in place. This might be the closest I’ve ever been to him.

  A raspy chuckle drops from his lips. “Look at you, turning red, little mouse. Are you blushing from the heat or—” He steps closer, leaning in, lips nearly brushing my cheek “—because you like what you see?”

  I jerk my head back as my heart thuds from his proximity and the rich, earthy scent of his sweaty skin. He really enjoys the sound of his own voice. For a second, his voice almost sounds like Wyatt’s, but I brush that aside. It’s simply that he’s mocking me with his flirty over-sexualization of everything.

  “It’s human nature to look. You know, with your dumpy clothes I never pictured you were hiding that underneath.”

  Connor gestures at my midsection, where my curves are on display. I suck in another sharp breath and narrow my eyes.

  “Now, just what is that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs. “You should lose the bulky sweaters. They do nothing for you. About as much sex appeal as a bunch of grandmas playing bridge.”

  I open my mouth to tell him off for being such an ass, but our front door opens and Mom steps out, keeping to the shade behind the stacked stone columns. She lurks there, watching us. When I don’t move, she crosses her arms.

  “Thea,” she snaps.

  My mouth purses and I tighten my grip on Constantine’s leash. He shifts at my feet, restless from the tension rolling off me. Is she kidd
ing right now? Ignoring her, I swing a glare back on Connor.

  “You’re very rude.”

  He blinks, parting his lips like I’ve surprised him. Maybe he expected me to curse him out or slap him, like other girls at our school might. Loud, confident girls. But that’s not me. I only raise my voice if there’s no other choice. Bolstered by catching him off guard, I give him another piece of my mind.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the way I choose to dress, whether it’s a potato sack, my favorite sweater, or this.” I fist the hem of my shirt, revealing a tiny strip of skin. Connor impresses me slightly by holding out longer than I expected, but his gaze drops to my midsection after a few beats. “And besides all that, I dress for me, not you, or anyone else. You don’t like my sweaters? Tough. So you can just leave me alone and go back to ignoring me.”

  I don’t raise my voice, it even quavers a little at the end. Pride burns in my chest, pleased with myself for standing my ground and telling the jerk off.

  This bravery has been growing since I first texted Wyatt, because I don’t have to live in fear, hiding myself away. I would never have had the guts to stand up to Connor before. Saying how I feel is empowering, both new and unfamiliar.

  It’s short-lived when Mom appears at my side. My eyes widen as she waves me to follow impatiently.

  “Thea, inside, now.” Mom huffs when I don’t immediately snap into motion. She’s acting like Connor has a contagious disease with how embarrassing she’s being. My life was already hard facing his teasing without her going all psycho mom on me. “I can’t believe you went out like—” She cuts herself off with a frustrated sound. “Let’s go.”

  I tug my arm from her grasp when she tries to take my wrist. “What’s the matter? I’m coming, okay? Connor and I go to school together. We were just saying hello on my way back from walking.”

  Her livid expression says it all. God, what is her freaking deal? Doesn’t she realize how insane she seems, dragging her grown daughter inside, away from a boy? Her lip curls and she shoots Connor a poisonous look.

  “Stay away from this boy, Thea. I don’t want you talking to him.”

  Connor watches the entire exchange with a bored expression, fingers tucked in the sides of his basketball shorts. He meets Mom’s nasty gaze with an arrogant grin, like he knows exactly how much he pisses her off.

  “See you later, neighbor,” Connor says, eyes half-lidded and locked on me.

  There’s something about the way he says it that makes my skin break out in a ripple of hot and cold.

  Mom releases a bitchy scoff and nudges me toward the house, Constantine following. As soon as we cross the threshold, she lays into me, saying what she refused to air in front of our neighbor.

  “How could you go out dressed like that?” She flings her hand at me in jerky movements, indicating my top.

  My temper rises. I kept my cool with Connor, but Mom sets me off. She never listens to me when I’m quiet. Arguing with her, I don’t have any choice but to raise my voice, or she’d never hear me.

  “There is nothing wrong with what I’m wearing, Mom!” I unclip Constantine and he trots off toward the kitchen, the sound of him lapping up water filtering through to the vaulted entryway where Mom and I face off with each other. “These are workout clothes and it was hot.”

  “Thea!” Her disappointed cry follows me as I go into the kitchen, picking out ingredients and pulling out the mixing bowls. Screw the ice cream, I need to shut my racing mind up. “I don’t care how hot out it is, boys will see you dressing like that and think you’re advertising you’re welcome to their advances!”

  If Dad didn’t travel so much for work, maybe we wouldn’t always be at each other’s throats. But he’s not here to create a buffer, currently away for another regional conference. I’m on my own against her.

  “Do you hear yourself, Mom?” I whirl on her, slamming a whisk on the white countertop. Mom startles. I almost jump myself. Being so confrontational isn’t my style. The burst of indignation burned hot and fast at what she said, and I just acted. “This isn’t the flipping dark ages. No one is going to freak out because I’m walking around in leggings.”

  “They will if you’re only half dressed! Your bra straps are—”

  “Mom, so help me, if you are about to say something about my sports bra being visible, I will lose it.” It’s like I can’t even breathe when I’m smothered by her. Constantine comes to sit by my feet, leaning against my leg. I turn back to my baking supplies, surveying what I grabbed on instinct as I continue ranting, getting on a real roll now that I’ve broken the dam. “Besides, boys need to learn to control themselves so I don’t have to put myself out and be uncomfortable in the heat in order to keep their eyes off me. And why am I living in fear of a boy looking at me? Why is that so bad? It’s human nature!”

  Once it slips out, it occurs to me those are Connor’s words.

  Moving to the other side of the kitchen, Mom hisses at me, “They’re out of control. None of them know how to behave.”

  “Seriously!” I toss my arms up in frustration. Talking to her is impossible when she gets on these topics. She’s so backwards. “That is such a sexist idea that I have to change and be the one to protect myself, and that all boys are dick-for-brains animals driven by their impulses. It’s a ridiculous argument, Mom, and it’s complete crap.”

  Her eyes bulge and she opens and closes her mouth a few times, searching for some way to respond to my call out. I can’t decide whether she’s more pissed I said dick or that I disagreed with her. I stand my ground through it all, hands planted on the counter, armed with my baking supplies for fortitude. Having Constantine’s solid weight against my leg helps, too.

  When she turns a concerning shade of purple, she gives up on whatever she was going to say and rushes out of the room, leaving Constantine and me alone.

  “Well,” I say, glancing at the chubby rottweiler at my feet. “Let’s bake.”

  Within minutes, I lose myself to the methodical process that quiets my mind and melts away my stress.

  Baking cherry turnovers from scratch helped calm me down, but I’m still annoyed at Mom after finishing up my homework in my room later. The corners of my mouth lift as I twirl a pen between my fingers, sitting cross-legged on my bed. As irritated as I am, I’m so damn proud of myself for not only standing up to Mom, but also telling Connor off.

  It felt good.

  For those few minutes I embodied everything I aspire to be in my secret folder photos, and for once I wasn’t sacrificing anything about myself to do it. Usually when I try to become Secret Folder Girl, I’m imitating other women who have made me stop and go wow, because they have that it factor.

  It’s been like that since my early teens, bombarded with images of the elusive idea of a perfect woman—as if anyone could live up to the fake ideals presented to us. Women are already wonderful the way they are. But I still struggle to accept that myself, even if I can dole out that advice to my friends.

  Those old wounds are stubborn, scabbed over but never fully healing.

  I shuffle my books to the nightstand and minimize the half-finished English paper for my favorite teacher on my laptop, opening a new browser window. The address I type in is ingrained, my fingers flying across the keyboard with muscle memory to type out my blog address.

  The one I hid from Mom.

  It loads, showing a feed of my latest posts—old photos of myself posed by the lake in a bikini that Maisy took for me, selfies in my bedroom trying on different outfits with short skirts or tying the tails of my blouse to reveal my stomach, and artsy crops where a hint of bra or panty line edge into the frame. Hundreds of posts blur past as I scroll the history of my blog, each with a photo.

  I haven’t posted to it in a long time, at least a year and a half. I didn’t have to once I found someone to fill the void the blog plugged up in my aching heart.

  Looking at these is kind of cringy now, seeing the phase I went through where I did my
hair in half-braided pigtails in every photo, or the ones where I put on thick winged eyeliner. The cringe factor only lasts for a few minutes, then it’s just like the muscle memory, the old photos from a few years ago reminding me how good they made me feel at the time.

  The comments help that feeling.

  I click on posts at random, seeing the numerous comments left by Henry_Your_GoodKnight.

  Henry_Your_GoodKnight: This is your best color. I’ll picture you like this always.

  Henry_Your_GoodKnight: Beauty beyond measure princess, but what really gets me is the way you smile. Your intelligent eyes say it all, love. You’re longing for the world to show you all it has to offer.

  Henry_Your_GoodKnight: Wish I could be there with you to experience your laugh. You’ll always be my princess.

  His words were always like poetry. He seemed so intellectual and cool. The fact he followed me? Wanted to talk to me? It was a dream come true to have someone like him notice me.

  I don’t always end up deep down this memory lane. Usually I only look at the pictures, but once I read one of his comments, I find myself in an all-consuming black hole. One after the other, I relive being the sad little girl so desperate to love herself, to make sense of her changing body, to experience being wanted, that I latched onto the first person to give me that. A stranger on the internet who found my blog and gave me the attention I was so hungry for.

  There’s an echoing pulse of endorphins as I read through the emails we’ve exchanged, where I sent more…risqué photos when he asked for them. Nothing nude, but not entirely innocent, either. He was so good at talking to me, getting me to see things his way. But some part of me is uncomfortable with the idea the suggestive images are still out there somewhere. I couldn’t bring myself to ever delete the emails, afraid I might forget the connection we had.